Un Millénaire Sans le Soleil
by Thagguy
Summary: Lord Gwyn is gone, burning in the Kiln of the First Flame, but his subjects must live on as Darkness slowly washes the Sunlight from Lordran.
1. Quelana

_New project! Granted, no one will read this because it's a Dark Souls fic, but this has been floating in my head for a while now. The basic premise is that this fic will be a series of 6-7 unconnected (but still in the same continuity), standalone short fics from the perspective of various characters in the game at various points in time. Not all of them will follow this format, or be in first person. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and exploring a bit of what exactly what happened in this event. This story will probably stay about this dark through the whole story, excluding a portion of Priscilla's chapter. It's...not a happy fic, but considering the source material, that's to be expected._

_This first story takes place 2 years before Gwyn throws himself into the Kiln of the First Flame, a thousand years before the game takes place, and a few months after the creation of the Bed of Chaos. At this point, it does not yet have that name, which is why Quelana never say it._

_EDIT 4/14/12: The Ceaseless Discharge was confirmed to be a brother of the sisters, so that detail had to be changed. However, as Quelana never actually mentions him in the game when talking about how her family was turned into demons, I'm extrapolating that she wasn't very close to him and possible actively disliked him. _

* * *

**Two Years Before Gwyn Links the First Flame (2 B.L.)**

You may have heard that not too long ago, an attempt was made to reverse the slide back to the Time Before Time, when Everlasting Dragons stood unmoving on ashen ground, when and there was no light or sound. In this effort, the Witch of Izalith, bearer of a Lord Soul, attempted to sacrifice her own Soul to create a new First Flame should the first burn out. Using the embers of the First Flame granted to Izalith, one of a few dozen placed around Lordran by Lord Gwyn that were still linked to the First, she tried to sacrifice herself for the survival of the world.

Well, she did destroy herself, but what she made was not our salvation, but a monster more frightening than the most powerful of the Everlasting- she was transformed into the mother of all demons, all of her daughters but one killed or distorted into the first of her demonic spawn. The mother of demons cannot be destroyed by any means we know- humans are warped into demons in its presence, and the Gods cannot touch it. For, you see, the Bed kept the Witch of Izalith's Lord Soul. None whose power comes from the Flame can harm it- not the Lord's Shield Artorias, with his great strength and holy power and unbreakable will, nor Dragon Slayer Ornstein, with his speed and cunning and lighting, could harm the beast the Witch has become. Not even the Great Lords Nito or Gwyn could harm the Bed, nor it them. Only those of the Soul Bearer's blood, or one who possesses the Dark Soul, the antithesis to the Lord Souls, could kill it, and he has not been seen since the Dragons were vanquished so many millennia ago.

How do I know this, you ask? I shall tell you, child. I know that you are not a child, though you seem as young as one to me. Younger, in fact; years separate you from childhood; I have not been considered one for many millennia. I know this because I was a witness to this calamity. I am Quelana of Izalith, last of the Daughters of Chaos, and sole survivor from the cataclysm that claimed my family, my home, and my people. Oh, hush, I have not been transformed into a monster. Would I be speaking to you if I had? I escaped from the horror that befell my city. I am not a danger to you. Would you still like to hear how Izalith has become a volcanic hell, beyond the barest of details and the wildest rumors, true though some may be? Then I shall tell you. As you know, the First Flame is starting to wane, and we both know what shall happen if this occurs. That is the reason Izalith burns and I am sitting with you in this swamp- we were conducting a ritual to duplicate the First Flame.

Yes, I know it was stupid. I have seen that fact firsthand. Now hold your damn tongue, you foolish, insensitive simpleton, or I shall not tell you any more and take_ your_ tongue as penance. Yes, I accept your apology. Now, do not interrupt me again, if you intend to do so by insulting my family and their memories.

We were conducting the ritual in the Amphitheater, for safety- so if something went wrong, we could minimize the damage to Izalith and its people. The thought is so bitter on my tongue that I nearly swallowed it before it left my lips. We were arraigned in a line opposite my mother, with the embers of the First between us. My eldest sister, Quellas, and I (all of my sisters shared the first syllable of our names, as was the fashion in my mother's and Lord Gwyn's generation, although she did not name us after herself as the Lord of Sunlight did) were on the ends, as I had the finest control of my flames and she was the most powerful of the daughters. We were the directors for our mother's power, returning any stray flames she was too occupied to control, while my other sisters amplified and anchored her power. It was the same as when we burned the realm of the Dragons all those eons ago, only now we looked upon the face of our mother instead of walking beside her as she set flames to the Dragons so hot that it melted their scales. If I had known it would be the last I would see my mother's face...

At first, the ceremony went as planned, with only a few minor setbacks we soon overcome. I shall never know what went wrong. Perhaps one of us guided a flame incorrectly; perhaps one of my sisters did not put enough power into her anchoring, or too much. Perhaps it was destined to fail from the start, and no one did anything wrong but undertaking the ritual in the first place. We were nearing the end of the process. My mother had removed her Soul-oh, do not look at me so, the Lord Souls are not the true, original souls of their bearers- except for Gravelord Nito- and thus they can be removed and transferred to others. This was the intent of the ritual, need I remind you?

I apologize. That was rude of me. I have not quite recovered from this ordeal. I suspect I might never will. As my mother was pushing her Soul into the embers, there was a bit of resistance, which translated into…discomfort for us. I believe Quellent cried out at this point- she was in the center of the line and thus, besides our mother, the most directly exposed to what was happening.

As soon as my mother's Soul touched the Ember, however, the Ember erupted into a great fireball. It was not an explosion, just an expanding sphere of flame- I have never seen anything like it, and hope to never again.

Before I continue, in addition to allowing me to gather my strength to describe what happens next, I must clear up a possible misconception. The Flames of Chaos, before these…recent events, was not an evil force. Chaos, by itself, is neither evil nor good- it just _is._ It is not like the Miracles, which are dependent on your Faith and the strength of your conviction in what you are using it for is _right_- it was as strong as the will you put into the flame. One can wield it for good, or evil- it cares not a whit what you do with it, despite what Allfather Lloyd says- his head is too far up his ass to really under-

Oh, don't give me that. That is very mild compared to some of what my mother said to his face on many occasions, and what the common folk said about him on the streets in Izalith. Even Lord Gwyn has little love for his uncle; the Bearer of the White Halo is just far too rigid and set in his ways, to put it politely. In any case, despite my shortness of stature, I am a God myself, though obviously not on his level of ability. I can hardly blaspheme against my own kind, can I? No, you "suppose not." May I continue?

Before, the Flame of Chaos held no more emotion than a sword or one of Seath's sorceries. This flame, however… just in its presence, one could feel intense hatred for everything besides itself, for the life of my mother and my sisters and myself, and a hunger. Perhaps hunger is not the right word. "Hunger" implies that it was a starving animal or person, that it would stop its feeding once satiated. No, this was more like a drain in the bottom of a bathtub, mindlessly sucking the water until not a drop is left, a pull that can never be satiated- you can keep refilling a tub until you have drained the equivalent of Ash Lake, and it will never stop draining until you cease refilling it.

My mother was right next to the Flame when it was warped into this vile mockery of itself; Quellant was not much farther away. They suffered the most powerful flames of the conflagration. Quellas and I were far enough away that we managed to leap outside the range of the flames, but what we saw…what we saw…

Forgive me. I cannot continue now. Please come back tomorrow, at the same time. Yes, I will be quite all right. I have this stone at my back, and I will not be seen by the wildlife of this swamp- if I am, I can be quite persuasive in convincing them that_ I_ am a higher predator. Leave me be for tonight.

…

You have returned. I should be quite able to finish my tale. It is forever seared in my memory like a brand; I fear it shall never fade. As soon as the flames touched my sisters and mother, they began to…change. Transform. Quelaag and Quelaan collapsed to the ground, screaming, clutching each other in their agony. Their clothes and catalysts were incinerated in the flames, but their hair and skin remained untouched. Above the waist, they were not altered- not that I could see- but their legs… they ballooned out absurdly, turning black as pitch as they did so. Even as they fused together and continued to grow, I could see legs and hair sprouting out…out of…out of the _thing_ sprouting from their bodies, even as eyes and jaws formed on the spiders they were becoming. But they were not the worst.

Quelluko and Quelesa exploded into light. I could not look at them to confirm their fates; I do not know what they have become.

Quellas tried to go to my sisters who were rapidly turning into monstrous spiders, but as she reached out her catalyst to Quelaag to drag them out, she got too close, and a flame shot out like a crossbow bolt into her forehead, but did not exit the other side. She collapsed, and I did not see her rise again.

Quellent was the closest of us besides our mother, but was not in the eye of the inferno. She caught the brunt of the flames. It overwhelmed her; instead of changing her, she...just exploded into ash, her robes and catalyst falling where she stood, both completely unharmed.

But my mother… I saw my mother's skin turn to wood before my eyes, her limbs stretching to impossible lengths as she tried to crawl away. She managed to make it to a body length from the edge of the flame before her legs split into roots and buried themselves in the stone floor. I walked up to my mother, as close as I dared to the flames that I knew might reach out and strike me down like they did my eldest, more powerful sister.

What happened next, I will see in my nightmares and every time I close my eyes, even if everything else fades into the mists of age. My mother looked at me, and said, even as her tongue turned to bark…

"_Quel…ana..."_

_Quelana started; seeing her mother speak in her own voiced, labored as it was, was somehow just as shocking as seeing her and her sisters transforming into demons before her eyes._

"_Qeul-ana…daughter…please…you must kill me before I change any further…"_

_Quelana's eyes filled with tears. She had been prepared that her mother might not make it though the ritual, but had never suspected this._

"_No, I can't! We can fix this! After you, I'm the greatest inventor of Flame magics who everlivedI'llfindawaytoreverseitIswear-"_

_The Witch of Izalith gave a great gasping wheeze, which silenced her daughter's growing panic like a slap._

"_No…it's too late..you must kill me...before…I can already feel the new demons growing..inside...take...my Lord Soul…" She raised a hand, now only vaguely recognizable as such, which held a small, glowing flame. Her hand just reached outside the barrier of tainted flame, which jumped at the Soul and then away again, like wolves nipping at an elk. "Please, Quelana…kill me…then take the Soul…quickly!…"_

_The Catalysts of the Daughters were not made to be used directly as a weapon, but they were extraordinarily tall and made of hardened, enchanted wood, and thus made passable spears in an emergency. Quelana held the catalyst above her head like a javelin ready to thrust. Her hand trembled. Tears ran down her face, only to evaporate in the furnace-like heat before crossing the bottom of her nose. She hesitated for an instant._

_That was enough._

_With a horrible wrenching noise, like bones crunching and flesh tearing and wood splitting, the Witch's face erupted into a mass of branch-like tentacles. The hand that held the soul clenched, and pulled back into the flames. The hand pressed against the Witch's once-ample chest, and the flame disappeared among the bark. With a roar, the monstrosity raised itself onto its roots, and began to grow. Quelaag and Quelaan, spiders fully formed were there were human legs just moments before, scurried away together, unnoticed by Quelana or the growing monstrosity. Two tendrils of intertwining wood and flame- not burning wood, but distinct and separate- lanced out towards the spheres of lightthat were five minutes ago two of the most powerful sorceresses in or beyond Lordran and speared them like harpoons would two fish. The fiery tree began to grow faster now, wreathed in sickly orange fire. _

_Quelana knew she could not stay. Pausing only to gather the empty robes of her sister and leaving behind the heavy wood catalyst, she fled from the amphitheater and the shrieking tree demon that was once her mother._

_Quelana ran, and never looked back until she had entered the walls of Lower Londo._

After that, I went straight to Lord Gwyn's court, right into whatever meeting they were holding at the time. Ornstein's outrage over my lack of protocol or respect of security evaporated very quickly when I explained what had happened in Izalith. I did not stay to learn what they planned to do; I did not care what the Lord of Sunlight decided nor was I going to aid him in that decision. Everyone I love was dead, or a demon, and no one, not even the Lord of Sunlight, can do anything but contain the monsters that used to be the people of Izalith. I am without a home or friends. Using my own Flame reminds me too much of what has befallen my sisters and mother. I am too weak to stand against that monster, even if I had not already proven myself the most miserable of cowards by hesitating to destroy the beast before it came to be. Had I not paused in my duty, perhaps these demons would never have been unleashed on the world. No, spare me your pity and empty platitudes; I deserve a fate far worse than what has befallen my family.

What is that? No. No. Do not make me laugh. I will not end myself. I will not take the coward's way out.

Not again.

I will stay here in this slum, in this swamp, and wait for one who can destroy the abominations my mother and sisters have become. I will create a new flame, a new Pyromancy, one that is free of the taint and the hunger of the perverted Flames of Chaos, and I will search for one who can release my family from the suffering that I have sentenced them to. I will stay in this bog, with the mosquitoes and the leeches and the plagues, until my family is free. Once I have made my new art, I will take the most gifted students, again and again, until I find one that can kill the creature that still possesses my mother's soul before its influence turns them to its will. Until then, I shall never leave this bog.

My sister's robes? I held them, still smoldering, as I spoke to Lord Gwyn and his court. After I was allowed to leave, I returned to Izalith and left her robes on the altar of a church overlooking the amphitheater. I then fled before the demons could find me.

Now, it is time for you to return to your home, young one. Do not tell anyone what you have heard or seen in this swamp. I do not desire tourists who wish to gawk at a being who helped slay the Dragons and now crouches in vile-smelling muck. Do not pity me; do not cry for me, young one, do not look at me with sadness and hope that I will make some nonexistent recovery or something to make me smile again.

I deserve this fate.


	2. Old Londo

In the ruins of Old Londo, the once-bustling and still-sprawling metropolis that long ago was the heart of Lordran commerce, there are many things that even a Hollow knows to avoid.

The most obvious to the newcomer is the Bridge of the Firstborn, his name chiseled out of the dedication stone and his statue smashed to pieces after his exile. Perching on the Church, once dedicated to Lord Gwyn's first child, is an enormous red drake that zealously guards her territory with torrents of flame and raking claws. She smites all who dare challenge her, the bellow of her wrath and the rush of air from the beating of her massive wings the only warning of the coming conflagration. Her back is ridged and jagged with razor-sharp scales the size of a man that dull the gleam of the sun like dried blood on a blade. The shortest of her talons is as long as a threshing scythe. The longest on each foot is held off the ground when she stands, and could spear the Great Felines of the Darkroot forest from nose to tail- not that she would risk a confrontation with the great grey wolf that wields the lighted sword. So large she is that her roars can be heard by the giants that stand guard outside the massive doors of the Church of Gwynevere; so hot her fires that they light up the crystallized walls of the Duke's archives a mile above, a second sun that glows from below. One day, perhaps, the Dragonslayer will tire of her daring and come to smite her has he has so many before, and mount her head in one of his many trophy rooms. But the descent of the Lion of Anor Londo is a long way in coming; for now, she rules her town with a fanged grin and lashing tail.

Another is the entrance to the old Peddler's Row, where the food sellers once made their homes and businesses before the Darksign removed such trivialities as civilization from their minds. Here lives a Capra demon, a beast with the body of a man, a skeletal tail, and a wicked horned skull for a head. Within the twisted, bleached skull- which resembles a goat in only the vaguest of ways- four glowing eyes are set deep into their sockets. No one knows if the skin and flesh of the demon's head is inside the skull in a grim inversion of life, or if there is nothing there but hatred and fire, for no mortal man has ever been close enough to see and lived. Though it is among the weakest of the demons spawned from the Bed of Chaos (_Curs'd Be its Profaned Name by the Light of the Allfather_), it towers over the few humans and Hollows still eking out an existence in the ruins of their town. It wields two great machetes, one each hand, each of which weighing as much as a knight in full gear. None lesser than the shining Silver Knights of Anor Londo have ever slain one in physical combat, have ever seen one dissolve back into the magic that formed it. Even the mightiest of sorcerers or pyromancers prefer to kill them from a great distance- a soul arrow through the chest will only stagger it, for it has no heart but the swirling hatred of the Flames of Chaos, and what is pyromancy to a creature born from molten rock and purest malevolence?

Were they still capable of rational thought, the few surviving Hollows of the middle city might wonder just how a Capra demon came to their town, so far away from lost Izalith. Even more so the enormous Taurus demon on the Northeastern battlements that occasionally bellows animal threats at the drake, massive shoulders scarred from too-close encounters with the red shadow of the Everlasting Dragons.

But they weren't, so they didn't: the base animal instincts of the Hollowed savages only knew to avoid these things, so as to stay a most painful death. But there is one other place that, though none have entered, all avoid. There is one door in one tower that is given the widest breadth of all. None know why; the door is locked, and has not been opened since it was first sealed. The do not know what is behind this door, just that their base instincts scream at them to stay away. So they do. What could be behind this harmless-looking door in an otherwise unremarkable tower overlooking the forest below that inspires such fear? There is a plaque of bronze (the gold has long since been stripped away by looters, before they lost their minds to a small circle of glowing embers on their skin) on the door, upon which reads:

"_Thou stands before the door that guards a mighty servant, friend, and bishop of Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, who fought amongst the Everlasting Dragons, who wore the armor of mightiest stone and swung the fang of an Everlasting, whose miracles purg'd the Ash from Lordran, who led his armies into fearless battle, who guided and nurtur'd his flock, who tended the sick and the hungry, who punished sin and injustice in the name of the Allfather and the Lord of Sunlight. He hath come here as Hollow'd, but he does not rest. He still stands guard with his Tooth and his Scales, ever vigilant, until the end of the World. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here; for beyond this gate hath be the resting place of Havel the Rock, Bishop of Anor Londo, Slayer of Dragons. He stands watch in exile and awaits the lifting of the Curse that has ended his life but not taken it."_

The Gods, for all their virtues, were never known for brevity or understatement. Not that there remains anyone to read such a dedication and criticize the melodrama in which those that once resided in Anor Londo showed those who had passed away in death or madness.

Far below this door, in the basement of this tower, stands a figure in the darkness a single eternally burning torch can't fully penetrate. Clad in grey rock, a huge shield is strapped to its back. A tooth, longer than the pillar of stone in the shape of man is tall, is thrown back against its shoulder. There is nothing in this prison besides this figure; just the shadows and the staircase. Another door leads to the forest, but none go through it. There are monsters beyond that door, but the occupant never responds to the scraping of crystal joints and the distant, echoing roars that are sometimes heard beyond it.

Ankle-deep in the muck in a nameless tower, Havel the Rock stands motionless, never eating, never sleeping, never laughing, never again singing. He stands tall, but not proud. He can never be proud- not any more. All emotion and feeling are gone from him, only the mindless bloodlust of the Hollow remains- and with no victims to pulverize, he stands guard over his own remains, like a cart with no wheels. He waits behind a wooden door and bronze tombstone. Of his army, famous for the strength of their arms and their faith, there is no sign. Standing upright in his grave until the end of the world- such is the fate of the Bishop of Anor Londo.

The circle of the Darksign, hidden behind six inches of plated rock, glows without heat on his chest.


	3. Artorias, Pt 1

_This was originally posted as part of "Red Soul" on the Spacebattles forums._

* * *

Knight Artorias' azure blue cape fluttered slightly as he stood in the former prison of Oolacile, despite the stillness of the air. The layers of his armor shined silver in the dark light. From his helmet, a thin plume of pure white hair trailed down to the base of his neck. The front of his helmet, in the shape of a wolf, had no metal to obscure his face. Framed by the same blue cloth as his cape, it was a kind, handsome, open face, with eyes that showed not the slightest trace of the millienia of fighting they had seen.

He looked down at the shield strapped to his arm. Along the inside of the shield, his thumb slowly rubbed in gentle circles around a small white porcelain carving of a hornet, worn smooth over centuries.

He looked up then. In front of him was the two lances of Human warriors that accompanied him to Oolacile in his mission to rescue Princess Dusk from the grasp of Manus, Father of the Abyss, and stop his spread across the lands of Oolacile.

Although the tallest of them barely came halfway to his own height, he could not be prouder of his warriors, these brave few who stood and fought by his side against Dragon, Demon, and Abyss alike. There were sorcerers and bishops and clerics, and even a pyromancer among their ranks, but most were swordsmen like their leader.

With him also was Sif, the last son of the great wolf-god. Though still just a puppy, he was already much larger than any true wolf, the size of a truly massive lion. Between his teeth he held a glowing great-sword nearly the size of him. It was a near exact replica of Artorias' own. The wolf pup sat, holding the sword, staring at Artorias intently. Artorias' gaze fell on the wolf, and the pup's tale struck against the ground happily before he regained his composure and stilled the traitorous appendage.

With them as well was Alvina, caretaker of the forest, and one of the oldest beings known. The bearcat was not crouched down against the ground, as was her usual, but sitting quietly, though her eyes still held some of their ever-present annoyance. Despite her great age, Alvina of the Darkroot Wood was never known for her patience.

"Some of you have fought with me since the War of the First Flame," Artorias began without preamble. His voice, though quiet indeed for a God, was firm and confident in its words, " striking out against the Everlasting Dragons that held the world in silent oppression for untold time before the Flame lit itself, and gifted the Lord's Souls to the mightiest among us, so that we should smite them and bring about a new age of fire and light, prosperity for all, so that we had not live in the darkness and the cold."

"Many of you have fought with me against the Demons that threaten our lands ever since the Witch of Izalith fell to her own attempts to revive the flame. You have stood with me against the twisted fires of Chaos, once a symbol of change and the wondrous spontaneity of life and now a wellspring of hatred."

"Most of you have fought with me against the Darkwraiths that came as the vanguards of the foul Darkstalker, servant of the Abyss and the very beast we now come to put down."

"But all of you, no matter how old or how young, how inexperienced or weathered by combat, are the bravest men I have ever known, who would stand against the Everlasting Dragons themselves, would cut down every last World Tree, would stare down the end of the world itself, just so that they might do a bit of good for those you serve and fight to protect. We come here now, not just to rescue a princess or a kingdom, but to save a people."

He waved his great shield, gesturing behind the gathered force in the direction they had came.

"You have seen what this monster has done to the good people of this land. To the men. To the women. To the _children._You have seen the way this devil twists their flesh and their minds to its vile being, how in turns their very souls against them. Will you stand for it?"

"NO!" came the roar of sixteen human voices. Sif, sword held in his mouth, reared back his head and howled. It was a joyous, defiant sound that echoed across the ruined prison like a bell that tolled the ringing of a new year.

"Will you let this monster live, unpunished for its crimes?"

"NO!"

"Will you fight with your all, will you die with your all, will you plunge your sword into evil and cleanse it from this land so that it can hurt no more, curse no more, hate no more?"

"YES! FOR LORD GWYN! FOR PRINCESS DUSK! FOR OOLACILE!"

"Then thus we descend."

Artorias reached into a fold of his armor with his sword hand. He slowly pulled it out of the pocket, a silver chain wrapped around his wrist, a broad silver pendant gripped gently in his fingers. He lifted it over his head, and it shown with a bright, pure white light. As he held it, the light extended beyond him to encompass all present, enveloping God and wolf and man and cat alike in pure white illumination. Artorias slowly turned to face the Abyss, holding the pendant in front of him. His armor glowed with a radiance like a sun.

And then, with a booming voice, he called out into the blackness:

"MANUS! BEAST OF THE ABYSS! FOUL FATHER OF FOUL CHILDREN! WE HAVE COME TO END THINE TERROR OF OOLACILE! WE HAVE COME TO STOP THINE ENCROACHMENT ON THE GOOD PEOPLE OF THIS LAND! WE ARE THE KNIGHTS OF ANOR LONDO! WE SHALL SMITE THEE, FOUL WRAITH! OUR FAITH IS STRONG, OUR HEARTS PURE, OUR RESOLVE UNSHAKEN! THE PEOPLE OF OOLACILE SHALL HAVE RESTITUTION FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST THEM, MANUS, FOR I AM ARTORIAS THE ABYSSWALKER, SLAYER OF THE DARKWRAITHS, KNIGHT OF LORD GWYN! I AM THE WOLF THAT GUARDS THE DEN! THINE EVIL SHALT NO MORE TARNISH THOSE THAT LIVE IN THE LIGHT OF THE SUN!"

There was a long silence. From the chasm, came a great sound, a voice beyond and below a voice, like the ground itself was opening its mouth to speak.

**"THEN COME." **


	4. The Bee and the Wolf

Ciaran woke to the tickling of sun-warmed grass against her face and though her thin cotton dress. This was not a sensation she was used to; as the leader of Gwyn's espionage and intelligence division, the Lord's Blades, Ciaran was much more used to the heavy cloth of her dark blue robe and the cool black metal plates pressing against her.

But she didn't mind. Now, unfamiliar was good.

A strong, muscular arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she shivered, though not with cold. She opened her eyes, and looked up at the owner of the arm, smiling beatifically down at her, eyes shining, short, dark brown hair a perpetual unkempt mess from too long beneath a helm.

"Good morning, Ciaran," Sir Artorias the Abysswalker said, bending down to tenderly kiss Ciaran's forehead.

"Good morning, Sir Artorias."

Artorias threw back his head, and laughed, a sound that rang though the forest like a bell, a joyous noise that chased away sorrow and misery like a dog chasing away a thieving fox.

Every moment, Ciaran fell a little more in love with him.

"Thou art always so_ serious,_ my little bee. Thou knowest I am only 'Sir' when mine armor is on; and there it is, spread out on the grass."

And indeed it was. Artorias had arrived from his latest push against the Darkwraiths to his home in the vassal kingdom of Oolacile, to find Ciaran waiting for him, but not in her armor, and with her blades nowhere in sight. He had quickly joined her in stripping of the armor of his office, and later more than that.

Ciaran rolled over the grass and onto Artorias' bare chest, and traced a finger down his side, delighting in the feeling of the serrated muscle.

"And thou," she said, adapting her usual throaty whisper to her lover's formal grammar, "Should taketh more things seriously, my dear Artorias."

The only reasonable response to that was for him to press his mouth to hers. She obliged him for some minutes, then suddenly rolled backwards from his grip with an agility only she possessed.

The look on the Abysswalker's face was worth it.

"That," Ciaran used in the voice she reserved for humans whom had gained her ire, though with a sly smile, "Is how the Lord's Blade jokes."

Then, hips swaying, Ciaran walked up to the other God, and slid down next to him, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck and press her chest against his. "Now, Artorias, isn't it preferable when I am serious?"

"Yes," Artorias said, his normally young, almost boyish voice deepening, "I do believe thou art right." His face came down to meet hers, and they rolled into the deeper grass where the living tree gardeners did not trim quite so low to the ground.

Much later in the evening, they lay in the grass, Ciaran's arms wrapped around the much taller man as they watched the sun set over Anor Londo in the distance.

"I wish I could stay here forever, Artorias."

"Hm?"

"Here, in Oolacile, in these Woods. I tire of the humans, Artorias. I grow weary of their selfishness and greed, how much they demand from Princess Gwynevere, and how little they return."

Artorias was silent. Ciaran didn't expect him to respond; she knew his opinions were very different from hers, and he knew not to argue the point. So, she kept going.

"My blades tire of the bloodshed, and deception. I wish to stay here, in this place, Artorias, and never leave your side."

Artorias sat up, then, and Ciaran shifted to lean against the muscles of his side. He lifted up a hand, and gently stroked the side of her neck.

"Oh, Ciaran," the Knight said sadly, "Where dost thou think we are?"

Ciaran blinked, and looked around behind her mask, and at the carved stone under her hand, the base of a grave twenty feet high, standing sentinel in the center of a wooded grove.

"AAAARRGGHHH!" Ciaran screamed, ripping off her mask and throwing it the three-dozen body lengths to the woods surrounding the grave. She heard the porcelain mask, the one she had worked so many years to earn, tirelessly striving for its honor, shatter against a tree.

She felt nothing for it.

She reached into a fold of her robe, and when her gauntleted hand emerged again, it held a purple flame. Within it, angry black flickers arched through the oil-like fire.

Ciaran stared at the soul in her hand, and trembled. This, this was all that was left of Artorias. She brought the soul close to her heart, and leaned against the stone.

Sif had survived the Abyss, rescued by the same human who had saved Artorias by giving him the death he would have wanted, before he could hurt anyone under Manus' corruption. He had helped slay the monster that had brought Artorias low, but too late for the Abysswalker.

Now, all Ciaran had was a dirtied tassel and his tainted soul.

Sif was here, somewhere. He would stay and defend the grave, protect it from the inevitable thieves who would wish to plunder the grave of one of Lordran's greatest heroes.

The bile rose in Ciaran's throat.

There would be many worshipers, of course, those that would wish to pay their respects. Warriors who respected Artorias' skill with a sword and civilians who knew of his kindness, who were helped both by the defense of his sword and the aid of his outstretched hand.

But there would be those who wouldn't care about the kindest of the Knights, those who wouldn't respect the tomb of the kindest of hearts. And Ciaran knew they would come, a thought that filled her heart with rage and grief. It only takes one drop to poison a well.

No one knew more of poison than Ciaran.

So the Lord's Blade curled in on herself, against the back of the tomb of Sir Artorias, and tried to remember the grass and sun. But all that she found was damp moss and cloudy sky.

_So this was the end, Artorias?_

And she remembered the last thing he said to her, before he left for the Abyss:

_"Thou art always by my side, Ciaran. I hold thee close to mine heart, and I am safe; nothing, not the Everlasting Dragons, nor the Demons of the Bed of Chaos, nor Manus and the Abyss shall separate us."_

Ciaran pressed the soul against her breast. She would fulfill Artorias' promise. Never again would Ciaran leave his side.

"My…dear…Artorias…"


	5. Fragments

_(A/N: Sorry this is so short, but I got bit by this idea and lengthening the pseudo-science reports didn't really add anything worthwhile. This is supposed to be "set" in a near-modern Lordran, well into the future of the Chosen Undead fiasco. Think the _1984_ Appendix.)_

_[ As dictated by Duke Seath to Hubbakum, Head Scribe of the Duke's Archives]_

_[Page is damaged by crystal growth]_

The purpose of this experiment is to test the hypothesis that the fertilization of a human ovum with sperm created by the [_paper is smeared_] sorcery on a Stone Scale fragment will result in a viable embryo. The ova are obtained from human volunteers unaffected by the Darksign; the Scale fragment was of the Everlasting Dragon Gwreidwl, obtained from Archive Preservation. After external fertilization, volunteer human mothers are inseminated with surviving zygotes. Successful pregnancies must be removed for artificial gestation before the [ _three-linegap in text_]. Experiment resulted in one surviving female infant, with normal human features as described in table 14. Further experiments [_remainder of paper is illegible from crystal damage_]

[_As dictated by Duke Seath to Ashion, Head Scribe of the Duke's Archives]_

Experiment D.H. 213.5 "Priscilla" (Figure A), Biyearly Status Report 12. Subject has reached the age of 6 years today. Height: 162.3 cm, mass 58.96 kg. Subject shows normal mental growth as expected of a healthy High Average-High intelligence human female. As expected from donor Dragon Scales, shows strong aptitude in ice magic similar to that wielded by Gwreidwl. Shows strong interest and aptitude in philosophy, poetry, and mathematics; social skills are observed as lacking. Shows consistent difficulty in assessing human emotion, intention, and expression. Has begun to refer to me as "Father;" origin of this concept of myself as parental figure is under investigation. Physical development better than projected; no physiological difficulties outside normal tolerances observed, despite subject's superfluous tail. Fine white down as observed in previous reports has receded to subject's forehead, shoulders, neck, and tail. Human anatomy, outside of anomalous overall height for a pureblood human, is as expected from subject's age and genetic background with no notable abnormalities or faults.

Subject has begun to spontaneously manifest a threshing scythe (Fig. B) during REM sleep and during periods of high excitement and distraction. Scythe is straight-handled and impractical for use in grain harvesting. The shaft is rough-hewn black wood. The head and blade appears to be formed metal in an organic, bone-like design. Scythe has resisted attempts at analysis by sorceric and non-magical means. Subject becomes highly agitated when parted from the device by more than 1 meter; panic increases rapidly until weapon is return, at which case subject immediately returns to baseline. Researchers handling scythe become highly agitated, report tactile hallucinations of ripping skin. Minority of researchers who handle weapon demonstrate spontaneous wounds that bleed profusely; see figure C for full documentation of symptoms of human and Lesser Divine contact with scythe. Further experiments utilizing this weapon are underway.

[_Figures from this report are missing.]_

**Editor's Note****: The above was recovered from the Duke's Archives, found inserted between the pages of an apparently unrelated text on Herbology. As no other documentation or evidence pertaining to the described experiment has been found, it is believed to be either a hoax of the time period, or surviving documentation following a purged experiment. The hoax theory has fallen out of favor among scholars in recent years, however, following further analysis on the crystal damaging the pages showing it to be almost identical to recovered shards of the Primordial Crystal; they are now widely accepted to be genuine. Duke Seath, before his descent into insanity, was known to micromanage his experiments, allowed by both his towering intellect and the largely ceremonial nature of his position allowing him to devote the majority of his time to his scientific and sorceric work. The reason for this experiment being purged from the literature, despite the meticulous record keeping of his Sorcerers, is hotly debated. **


	6. The Bee and the Wolf, pt 2

With a mournful howl, the giant blue sword fell from the great wolf's teeth. The beast, legs finally failing him, collapsed to the soggy earth, no longer able to take the punishment of the Undead, the newest trespasser into the Tomb of its master and dearest friend. Sif panted heavily on the ground, legs moving feebly to rise, to protect his long-departed friend from the greed of men, from yet another who would desecrate the Abysswalker's tomb for selfish gain.

The Undead cautiously approached the wolf's neck. Sif tried to growl, but the sound emerged as a barely-audible gurgle. The undead carefully ran a hand up the fur on the underside of the grey wolf's neck, while carefully watching the teeth as long as a dagger should the guardian of the tomb display a last surge of strength. Finally, the searching hand reached a thin chain wrapped around Sif's neck, hidden by thick fur, and the wolf-god felt a spike of fear deep in his heart, one that he had not felt for many, many years.

Too late, in his dying breaths, Sif knew what this Undead sought; something far worse than merely the desecration of Artorias' memory, but something far, far worse. Could that be the Undead's mission? To enter the Abyss that had encroached into New Londo? To descend into the void that had enslaved the Four Kings, the rulers that Lord Gwyn had entrusted a portion of his Soul to? Monsters from which even Artorias was forced to flee? For they, even as they were corrupted by the Abyss and its evil, still possessed a mighty fragment of Lord Gwyn's power, exceeding even that of Manus, the Father of the Abyss, progenitor of the very Dark Soul itself. It was a power that had forced his master, and his master's master, to flood the city to contain its vile taint, for should the fallen Kings have escaped...

Sif's breathing was failing, becoming faster and more shallow. Was that this Undead's true purpose? Not to plunder the tomb of the greatest hero of Lordran, but to release the Darkwraiths? Nothing could stand against them. All that his master did, his sacrifice, all would be for nothing.

Sif died knowing he had failed Artorias.

* * *

The massive wolf shuddered, and was finally still. The Undead breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the soul of the animal god flowed out of the massive body and was absorbed into the Undead's own-the final confirmation of death. The human slowly worked a hand down the links, searching for something. After many lengths of chain had passed through the human's hands, the Undead suddenly stopped. On the thin golden chain held between the Undead's fingertips was a ring, thin-banded, set with a tiny grass-green stone. The Undead wrapped a hand around the ring, and with a sharp tug, pulled it off the chain. The ring was examined, and slipped into a pocket.

But the Undead did not leave.

Walking around the corpse of the wolf-god, the Undead examined the stone of Artorias' tomb. The blades driven into the field were of course rusted to usability, some so decayed only their general shape could be made out. There were smaller graves as well, likely Artorias' own knights that had died in his service, but the Undead ignored them. The Abysswalker's tomb was a tall, rectangular monument of thick grey marble. There was writing on the front, but warn from the elements; only a few words here and there could be made out and not nearly enough to form anything coherent.

The Undead whispered a quiet prayer for forgiveness from the fallen deity. Though he had been dead many centuries, Sir Artorias was still the greatest of the heroes of Lordran, for he was a God who fought for humans even when the others turned their backs. He had lain down his life in the Abyss to destroy a great evil that had already swallowed Oolacile, a monster that, even to this day, remained unknown, the massive canyon that had swallowed the entire city evidence for the beast's passing. Of the Martyrs, only the sacrifice of Lord Gwyn himself was higher, regardless of the slander of a giant cat crouched in the windowsill of an Oolacile ruin.

Prayer completed, the Undead slowly circled around the back of the grave.

Curled against the tomb was a body. The Undead was surprised to see that, despite the warm marsh, the corpse was well preserved and dessicated from what could be seen of the corpse's skin showing through the tatters of the decaying clothing. Though it was falling to pieces from exposure, unlike the untouched state of its wearer, the Undead recognized this armor.

The Undead had heard stories of the Lord's Blades, of course, as a child. Though no one knew _exactly_ what they looked like, the dark blue robes and armor of the women of the Blades were still legendary. Unlike the other three Knights, whose deeds were a triumph for all, the Lord's Blades were talked of in hushed whispers; the sort of creatures used to threaten misbehaving children into compliance- _"Be still, or the Lord's Blades will take you, if the Darksign doesn't get you first!"_

The last part was merely a formality, a completion of a saying, for the children had always, always stilled by then. For the Lord's Blades dealt in the shadows, striking out against the enemies of Lordran in silence with stinging blades and heart-stopping poison. Such was their reputation that the hint of their deployment would quell the enemies of Anor Londo as surely as they quailed rambunctious youth. Only the invocation of the long-dead and damned Kalameet was a greater curse.

The Undead crouched down in front of the corpse, examining it. She was a tall woman, for a human, but short for a deity. The Undead suspected the latter; a human corpse would never have survived in this condition in a damp forest like this.

The human began to stand, then saw a corner of an oilskin bag poking out from a fold of the robe. Returning to the crouch, the Undead carefully plucked the bag from the robe. It was light, as if it had nothing in it. Opening it, the Undead found it contained only a single sheet of parchment, filled with dense, neat handwriting.

_My Dear Artorias, _

_I think, every day as I stand above your body, how I should have saved you, how I was not fast enough, not strong enough, not smart enough. I wonder, could I have stopped you? Could I have made you halt before leaving on that doomed mission to Oolacile? _

_No. I could not. Nothing I could have said would have stopped you from trying to rescue those doomed people. Most of it would have made you leave even faster. But that was what made you unique, Artorias. Others were brave, others were strong, others were selfless; but only you were so singularly devoted to your people, to the humans. Only you kept the full strength of your conviction, when Lord Gwyn went to the Kiln for the last; only you saw it as reason to only fight harder, instead of merely struggling to avoid despair. _

_What I would give, Artorias, to hear your voice again. I would sacrifice everything I was, am, and will ever be to see your smile again and feel the warmth of your gaze. My mask, title, all of my life, to hear your saccharine words and foolish optimism, to give praise to those who have not earned it and to give pity to those who earned only scorn. _

_This world is cold without you, Artorias. Manus took from us the last of the great lights of this world, snuffed it out, and left your candle to burn nowhere but in the memories of your friends and the remembrances of your deeds. _

_I will be with you soon, Artorias. I do not know if I will be able to touch you again, see you again, kiss you again, when I rejoin you in the Flame. I wish with all that remains of my heart that I will. For only then could I assuage my debt owed to the world by the fact that you are not here today._

_Forgive me. _

The Undead finished the letter, and glanced up at the skeleton of unknown Lord's Blade. Her white, featureless porcelain mask laid at her knees where it had fallen off. Her faces, exposed to the air, stared with hollow sockets at the mossy ground. None of her pride could be seen in those tattered robes; her skin, stretched taut against her bones, dry as if she died in a desert instead of a soaking forest, gave no trace of her grief.

The Undead looked back at the letter again, and carefully folded it back up. Gently, so as not to disturb the body, the Undead placed in within the clasped hands of the corpse.

After a moment's pause, the Undead removed a plain metal ring, embossed with a hornet, from the corpse's dessicated finger. It slipped off easily.


End file.
